


Some things are meant to be

by grumpyphoenix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Ghost Castiel, Gift Fic, Lucie's secret santa, M/M, Significant difference in history, Slow Burn, still hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5536880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyphoenix/pseuds/grumpyphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean buys a new house, complete with the ghost of a long dead James C. Novak. When the first attempt to put the spirit to rest fails, Dean discovers that he really doesn't want to finish the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cliophilyra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cliophilyra/gifts).



> This is part of a gift exchange on a fanfiction writing community on Facebook. Most of this has been written while I've been sick as a dog, and it isn't finished. I will finish it, but I wanted to put part of it up. This is not at ALL beta'd. In fact, I barely have read it through twice. 
> 
> That said, concrit is something I'm pleased to take. This might be taken down in its entirety to be replaced with an edited version at some point.

Sam flops down onto the porch steps, his oversized limbs sprawling everyplace. Reaching up, he accepts a bottle of beer from his brother and takes a long swig from it, condensation already beading and sliding down the amber glass. It isn’t even summer yet, and the heat is beyond oppressive. 

He pants, coming up for air, “Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy physical labor on my birthday as much as the next guy, but did you have to buy a house containing every stair in existence?” 

Dean laughs, kicking one of Sam’s legs out of the way, and dropping down next to him. “Sorry, man, it was literally the first day I could move in here, and my apartment lease ends today. It’s this, or I live out of my car for a couple of days.” He leans back, looking up at the house with a smile. “And this is the house, Sam. It’s like you said; when you find The One, you have to go for it!” 

Sam punches him on the arm lightly, “I was talking about Jess, jackass.” 

Dean just grins around the beer, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. He thinks about the house and all the work it needs. The roof and the foundations are solid, so he isn’t too worried about rot or damp, but the rest of it isn’t in the best shape. It had been on the market so long that vines had grown around the sign on the front lawn, and the realtor had to track down a dusty file folder in their storage area for details. 

Dean stands and stretches, giving his new house a luxurious gaze from the ground all the way up to the round tower on the very top. Boarded windows, broken siding, paint so old and peeled that it has an overall shade of weathered grey. Novak Mansion, built in the 1900s, had gone through a number of owners over the years, the last having been a frat house. The back yard was a horrible strata of broken beer bottles and trash. 

The sound of Sam chuckling brings him back to earth. “What now, Sammy?” he peers over at his brother. 

Sam smirks. “Just, you’re giving the house that look that you give someone when you’re figuring out how well their pants will look crumpled on your bedroom floor.” 

Dean shrugs, “Well, Sammy, she’s just that sexy. Now quit lazing around and help me haul my bed up there. Then you can let me shower at your place, and we can all go out to celebrate you getting another year older.” 

The brothers head off towards the moving truck, bickering good-naturedly. Sam goes into the truck to start pushing the bed frame out, and Dean looks back at the house, eyes catching on the ancient lacy curtains that hang in the mostly intact window in the top of the round tower. He squints. Just for a moment, he almost thinks he sees… 

“Dean! I am NOT carrying your heavy ass bed all the way up the stairs alone; snap out of it, Romeo!” Sam’s sharp tone jolts him out of his reverie, and Dean grabs his end of the bedframe. 

At the top of the tower, the curtains swing as if brushed by a breeze.   


Stumbling home at one in the morning, Dean suddenly remembers that he neglected to put his bed together once they finished manhandling the behemoth up the staircase to his bedroom. He takes off his shoes in the foyer, and then seized with an inexplicable urge to remove the rest of his clothes, sheds them like a snakeskin, leaving them puddled in the front hall. He pads into his living room wearing only his boxers, and crouches next to his record player, sorting through the milk crate full of albums until he finds Simon and Garfunkel. Sitting next to it, he lights a cigarette. He only smokes when he drinks, and he’s more than a little buzzed. 

_In the clearing stands a boxer/And a fighter by his trade/And he carries the reminders/Of ev'ry glove that laid him down_

Lit only by the glow of the cigarette cherry and the lingering light from the hall, Dean listens contentedly. In fact, he feels more at home here than he’s felt anyplace in his life, except when driving his car. He feels grounded here. He grinds the last of the cigarette out while they sing about making love in the afternoon to Cecilia. Pushing the various boxes off his couch, Dean crashes there, the record player still going.   


*****

He starts talking to the house almost immediately. It starts when he begins the arduous task of stripping the wallpaper. The stuff is everyplace, peeling and moldy and dingy. Taking wallpaper off a wall is never going to be anything but tedious, and the worst part about this particular adventure is that the walls are thick with decades of paper in layers. Lest he risk damage to the wall underneath, they need to be removed one layer at a time. 

Dean starts talking about halfway through this process. “I know this feels bad right now, but imagine how you’ll feel without all this….this gunk all over your insides.” He carefully peels maroon paper soaked in solution off the wall, revealing a hideous yellow and teal flower pattern beneath. He sighs. 

“Oh good, more paper. This is at least paper from the 70s, so I think we’re making progress!” He pats the wall gently, “Don’t worry, gorgeous. We’ll have you looking your best soon.” 

After a week or so, he becomes aware that he has finished the last room. He begins to inspect the walls for damage, making notes as he goes. Of course, he’s looking for something else as well. 

“I don’t suppose,” he asks the house as he climbs up a ladder to look at a suspicious buckle in a hallway wall, “That you’ll tell me where the door to the tower is? I’d love to see whatever is inside it.” The ladder wobbles, and he has a heart stopping moment before he can restore balance. 

His breathing is tight, but he laughs a shaky laugh anyway. “Of course not, I understand. Girl’s got to have her secrets.”   
  


Every place in the house becomes a place to put boxes, building materials, or equipment, but Dean eventually sorts out three important rooms: His bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room. The living room has him looking in boxes that have been sitting in storage forever while he lived his life on the road. Some of them are things from his mother, which he lingers over in an interesting mix of sweet nostalgia and grief. He puts her favorite lamp next to the couch, and a family portrait with the frame that she’d made up on the wall. He and Sammy are both kids in it, their parents smiling and happy. Impulsively, he searches through the boxes until he unearths the hand carved chess set she had made for him. He puts all the pieces on the board, and then moves the white pawn, leaving it there as if he was just about to play a game. Maybe he can invite Sammy over and they can play. 

Two nights later, he realizes that a black pawn has made its move. He gingerly makes another move, freeing a bishop out to cause havoc. The next morning, the black knight is threatening his pawn. Dean makes another move before starting to spackle the upstairs hallway. He rummages through his record collection until he finds _Electric Ladyland_ , and puts it at top volume so he can hear it upstairs. 

“I should make some shelves for the records,” he says to the walls, “So I can get them all out of the boxes. Maybe I can make that extra room…was that a sitting room? Maybe I can make it into a music room or something.” Fuck, he hates spackling. 

He leans back, and stretches. “Soon, the fun stuff starts. Like, what color should I paint this wall? Sammy would say beige. ‘Just think about resale value, Dean’.” He mimics his brother while making a little puppet out of his hand. “As if I could sell you, beautiful.” He pats the wall, and then grimaces. 

“I am going certifiable, talking to a wall. I have to get out tonight.” Picking the bucket back up, he restarts his labor. 

He does get out that night, hitting a bar with Charlie and some dude he had never met before named Benny. Benny drives him home when it is clear that Dean’s not up to the task, so Dean invites him in, and they spend some time entwined on the couch. Benny starts to get aggressive, and Dean asks him to go. Benny makes a highly unpleasant scene when he goes. 

Dean opens beer after beer, loudly berating himself for alienating everyone he meets, eventually sliding off the couch and onto the floor, falling asleep midway through an explanation of how he just drives everyone he loves away, just look at Sam. 

An overwhelming urge to pee wrenches him into consciousness around noon. He’s lying on the floor, covered with a blanket, and every bottle of beer is lined up neatly on the hearth next to his head. On the turntable, _Six Suites for Unaccompanied Cello_ plays softly. It takes him a long time to pry himself up and stagger off to the bathroom, but he still pauses to capture the black knight on his way upstairs. 


	2. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> June.

“So get this,” Sammy enthuses to Dean over a mountain of books and papers piled thickly over the kitchen table. “I think I know why…” he gestures towards the living room. 

Dean cocks his head to show he’s listening while he stirs the cauldron of chili he is cooking on his gigantic new gas stove. Every fitting still gleams. 

“Originally, this house was built by James C. Novak, an engineer who had made a mint overseas, and came to live here in 1910. Everything about him seems to be hearsay. He lived alone except for a male friend who often stayed with him for long periods, a Balthazar Milton.” He ruffles pages and snorts, provoking a smirk from Dean. 

“You mean they were lovers, right?” Dean puts the top back on the heavy pot and wipes his hands on the kitchen towel, looking over at Sam. 

Sam shrugs one shoulder. “I think so, but this stuff is never conclusive. Men had to be careful back then. The gossip certainly puts them there, though. Then, when World War I broke out, Milton went back to England and died almost immediately. Novak…” he sighs, “Damn. Dean, he poisoned himself in the living room. His considerable estate was without a will. It was known that his study was in the tower, but no one could find a way in to see if he’d left a will there.. No one has since been able to find the door to the tower. People have tried to go in through the window, but every time freak accidents either kill or maim whoever it is. Eventually people just stopped trying.” 

Dean rubs his forehead. “So, there’s a ghost.” 

Sam nods, popping the top off a new beer. “Looks like there’s a ghost.” 

Dean sucks on his teeth thoughtfully. “Okay. Buried locally?” 

Sam nods. “His family in England wanted nothing to do with him, but his sister arranged to have him buried here.” 

Dean sighs. “Well, we can go tonight. It’s a shame; he’s a good chess player.” 

The timer goes off, and Sam starts to gather all the books and papers together as Dean gets cornbread from the oven. 

That night, Dean climbs the stairs with a heavy heart. In the shower, he watches the grave dirt wash down the drain, and thinks about how hard it was to come out. He wonders how lonely Novak must have been when it was unthinkable to love so freely. “I am so sorry, James C. Novak,” he says with a gentle sigh. “I hope you are finally resting in peace.” 

When he finally sleeps, he has confusing dreams about a faceless man with light blue eyes, eyes the color of the sky, and wakes up with a pounding heart.   
  
*****

A week later, his queen is sitting off to the side of the chessboard. A black bishop has taken it. Dean hadn’t had the heart to put the board back to rights, and he hasn’t touched it since. Uneasily, he wonders if Sam made the move, and resolves to ask him. 

He takes the bishop with a pawn. He does not talk to Sam about it.   
  
*****

Dean is very carefully removing the painter’s tape from the trim in the foyer when he asks into the stillness, “What does the C stand for?” 

He isn’t really expecting an answer, so the lack of one isn’t a surprise. He gathers the tape, and goes into the kitchen to throw it away. Grabbing a beer, he goes into the living room and nearly drops the bottle. 

A small card, made of luxuriously expensive paper, stands tented on the chessboard. 

_Castiel_ , the inside of the card says. The handwriting is beautiful and clearly done with an old-fashioned pen dipped in ink. 

“Castiel,” Dean whispers the name. He can hear it echoed through the halls, up and down the stairs, as if he’s left a window open and the wind itself carries the word, ‘Castiel’. 

He brings the card up to his bedroom and puts it carefully into his journal. 

He hasn’t written in it for years, he hasn’t had anything to say. Tonight though, he sits in his bed with the light on, and writes in it. 

_His name is Castiel, and he is my friend._


	3. July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July.

There are no more boxes, and the absence of clutter leaves many rooms empty and bare. Dean refuses to fill them with extraneous furniture, so they stay that way until he has a need for something. Despite the emptiness, it has a lived in, homey feel. He has wired the house with speakers, so he can listen to a record from his music room anywhere he wants, even though the music room itself is a magnificently comfortable place to sit and hang out. Occasionally while he’s in another room with the speakers blaring, a record will stop mid play, to be replaced with something else. Dean is keeping a list. Castiel does not like Jimi Hendrix, ACDC, or Metallica. Like clockwork, these will turn into classical music, or, more often than not lately, The Beatles or Bob Seger. A few days after Dean watched a Rocky marathon, the _Eye of the Tiger_ single plays unexpectedly during his work out when he starts using the punching bag, and every time after. 

Sam insists that the fourth of July party take place here, since everything is so beautiful now, and because the house has a lot of room for people. He tries to say no. 

Sam turns the puppy dog eyes on him, with “Okay, but Dean, I haven’t really seen you in a month. Your friends haven’t seen you in much longer. C’mon, be social for once.” Dean capitulates with a scowl, acid churning in his stomach. 

The morning of the fourth, Dean is a wreck. He spent the night in the music room explaining himself to Castiel. 

“Hunters,” he said as he paced, “Rarely ask questions. If he sees you are still here, he’ll just try another way to get rid of you, no matter what I say. Please, just keep a low profile tomorrow.” Castiel does not answer him, but this morning there was another card on his nightstand. It simply said, “Be unafraid”. 

This does not reassure him. 

The party goes on mostly without Dean’s input. Sam has bought him a grill, and he’s brought Benny with him, who mans the thing on the back deck most of the party, churning out perfect burger after perfect burger, laughing easily and loudly while he drinks beer out of a plastic red cup. Dean spends most of this time leaning against the deck railing with his arms crossed with a scowl on his face. 

Charlie comes and sits next to him. “Nice deck, Dean.” 

Dean snorts and shrugs a shoulder. “The fraternity put it in. I just made it safe to stand on and sanded the splinters off.” 

Charlie punches him on the arm. “Dude, give Benny the time of day. He’s really into you. And you seriously need to get laid.” 

Dean rubs his arm absently. “There’s too many people here, Charlie. I don’t even know half of them.” 

Charlie frowns a little, regarding him over the rim of her cup. “Really? No offense, Dean, but you’ve never been the kind of guy to hate having a lot of people over. You were the one who crammed your one bedroom apartment with like, fifteen people every Friday night.” 

Dean shrugs violently, as if dislodging an intruding hand from his shoulder. “Yeah, well. Maybe I’m just…” he leaves the sentence unfinished and turns, ignoring the suggestive way Benny is looking at him, going back inside the house. 

Dean storms through the wreck that is his once pristine kitchen, down the hall, and up the stairs. He shoulders past groups of people in the hall outside his bedroom, going in and closing the door hard enough to make a wall hanging outside fall off the wall. 

Being in here isn’t helpful. He’s tense and can’t breathe. He paces in front of his window, looking down at the street, and the milling people trampling his lawn. Someone had planted roses, long ago, and they grow wild against the fence. Dean hasn’t admitted that he loves them, but he does. The fact that his brother’s guests are currently being scratched badly when they try to pick flowers uninvited only makes them that much more wonderful. 

Sam’s voice filters through the angry haze. He’s coming upstairs to find him. Dean swears gently, placing his forehead against the window. He isn’t up for an argument with Sam right now. Something behind him creaks slowly, and he spins, reflex making his muscles tense for confrontation. 

The closet door is open. 

Dean barks out a short laugh. Hiding from his brother in the closet is probably the most amusing symbolism right now, but fine. He reaches it just as he hears Sam’s voice outside his bedroom. He closes himself in. 

The light is on, allowing Dean to see a red handprint on the back wall. A grin breaks through Dean’s tense countenance; he knows exactly what this is. He examines the wall, looking for seams. He looks for places where this might slide, pull, or push…push. Could it really be that easy? 

Placing his hand squarely in the middle of the red handprint, Dean pushes. There is a click, and a puff of stale, cold air blows over his face. He keeps pushing, and steps into the space beyond, letting the panel shut behind him. 

He is at the bottom of a tightly wound spiral staircase shaft. It is dusty, and so cold he can see his breath. Sam, the party, his irritation, all forgotten, Dean climbs up and around, and pushes open the trap door he finds at the top.   
  


*****

After a few moments, Dean lets out the breath he’s been holding in an amused whoosh. “Well, I don’t think this is what I was imagining. In my defense, though, I can hardly be faulted for not imagining that I could use the term ‘Victorian Wizard’ to describe décor, like… ever.” 

“Is it a disappointment?” he hears a low gravelly voice murmur behind him, and Dean smiles. 

“No, Castiel. No, it isn’t. It complicates things a little, I suppose, but I have a suspicion you weren’t a Satan worshipping witch.” He feels a freezing touch brush down the back of his neck and across his shoulders, and shudders. 

“Are you going to turn around?” Castiel is too close, like being crowded against a column of ice. Dean rolls his shoulders, and his grin gets wider. After a moment, Castiel adds, “Please?” with amusement tinging the edges of his words. 

Dean turns around, laughing, “That’s more like…it.” Castiel is gorgeous with his wrecked hair and his cheekbones, and a severe, unwavering gaze. The old timey outfit doesn’t hurt either. He flickers once and then seems to stabilize, looking unblinkingly into Dean’s eyes with an intensity he finds hard to take for long. 

“I was not a witch. I powered my spells with my own soul, which was harder, but did not indebt me to Hell. You are welcome to hide here until your brother’s friends leave my…your…the house.” His body flickers again, and he is suddenly gone. 

The room remains frigid, so Dean knows he’s still here. Dean smacks the cushions of the large reading chair until the dust stops flying up, and sits in it to read the top book on the pile next to it. 

It is incomprehensible. “I should probably start with the junior’s spell book, jeez.” Dean puts the book back, and draws his knees up, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth. 

“Sam’s pretty smart. I worry he’ll find me here, and then find you. I should probably just go and face the music.” 

Castiel’s voice comes from somewhere to the left, but he does not materialize. “No. When I was…before I…this place will admit only those I find trustworthy. Rest, now.” 

The room becomes abruptly warm again as the July heat seeps in. He can feel his arms and legs. Dean hopes that wherever he is in the house, Castiel is being careful. 

Shouts and laughter wake him. He stretches, knocking the tome he’d been reading off his lap. He found it on Castiel’s desk, and it appears to be a diary. Dean only had a few minutes of shame when he realized what it was he had, but his investigative instincts kick in, so he started to read it anyway. He picks it up as he goes towards the window, unconsciously holding it fast to his chest. 

He looks out the window. Everyone is heading down to the lake to watch fireworks. The sky is a stale color: still light, but losing its potency by the minute. With a growing sense of satisfaction, Dean watches the party drain out of his house into the street. At the tail end of the group is Sam, who turns and looks upwards. His eyes narrow as their gazes lock, and Dean swears loudly. 

He bolts for the door, taking the stairs two at a time, and pushing through the closet, tripping over his duffle bag. He still has the book. He pushes it under his bed, and only has time to nonchalantly lean against one of the massive bedposts before Sam thunders in. 

They spend a half a moment eyeing each other before they start talking in Unison, Sam accusing and Dean defending. It is over before it begins, as Sam accuses him of hiding Castiel. 

“He’s still here, isn’t he? Why haven’t you put him down? Does he have remains in that tower?” Sam steps forward, yelling. “Dean!” 

Dean sighs, “Yeah, Sammy, okay, I hear you. No, he’s not here.” 

Sam narrows his eyes. “Then show me the tower.” 

Dean snarls, “Aren’t your friends waiting for you? Get out of my house, Sam. You’re going to miss the fireworks. Charlie and Benny, and those two dozen hipsters you invited in here, they’re going to wonder where you are. Fuck off.” 

Sam makes a low noise of frustration, and turns away, his lips pursed in anger. He looks like he’s going to say something, but then storms down the stairs. The house is quiet.   
  


*****

Dean spends hours cleaning. He does it in silence, collecting red cups, putting uneaten hamburger in the fridge, cleaning the backyard in the waning light. He goes through each room carefully, fixing things that are out of place. His record collection is a mess, half of the albums out and around the room, some of which are out of their sleeves. This actually brings tears to his eyes, and he simply leaves it for another day. 

He makes a small pile of personal items and puts them in a box outside the door, labeled: _take your shit!!!!_ He locks the door after himself, and turns out the lights, in every room. Upstairs, he showers, still silent, despite his usual habit of singing Zepplin off key while he shampoos. 

Dean dries off, and goes to lie down in bed naked. He retrieves the book from under the covers, and starts to read it again. The sun goes down, and he can hear fireworks in the distance, the glow of them splashing into his bedroom, casting spurts of color over his floor. Dean turns on the lamp near his bed. 

The clock hits midnight, and Dean pads downstairs for a small snack, eating it naked, lit only by the light of the open fridge. Then he goes back up to read. 

The clock hits 3am. Dean turns onto his stomach, propping himself up with a pillow. He reads. 

Blue light begins to filter into the room, making everything appear colder than it is. Dean lies on his stomach, asleep. The book is open to nearly the end, Castiel’s writing having petered off shortly before his death. Dean has written in an empty page with a ballpoint pen that has slipped from his sleeping grasp and rolled onto the floor. 

_So, why do you hate AC/DC so much anyway?_

When Dean wakes up, there is a reply in Castiel’s neat handwriting, just beneath Dean’s scrawl. A blanket covers him, tucked snugly against his sides. His cheeks heat suddenly, realizing that he is still naked. With a smile and a cough, he reads the reply: 

_I am baffled this is the question you were so burning to ask that you defiled my journal to ask it. The “music” is too loud, and frequently incomprehensible. Why do you listen to it? It must have some hidden value, as you assault my ears with their dulcet tones at least once a day._

Dean laughs, and scrambles for the pen, writing beneath it: 

_Sometimes because it’s sexy, though not as sexy as Zeppelin. Sometimes it just lifts me up, fills me with adrenaline. Because it rocks, my friend. There is nothing like driving with it all the way up on the radio._

He leaves the journal open on his bed and gets dressed to go out and find Sam. They need to talk.


End file.
